


devotion

by notorious



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Prompt, cara just likes when he's himself, din is a lil emotion-shy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28653189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notorious/pseuds/notorious
Summary: Din gives Cara a piece of himself in exchange for an answer to one very important question.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cara Dune
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	devotion

**Author's Note:**

> ahoy !! i received the following prompt in an ask on tumblr: Din Djarin asks Cara Dune (with a engagement ring) for her hand in marriage. She, of course, says “yes”. this is my take on it. this is unedited. pls do enjoy (and if you don't, go read something else i wrote).

The Way holds no customs for marriage.

Civil unions were hard to come by in a class of people who did not and could not remove their helmets around others should they ever wish to put them on again.

As such, Din is rather unprepared for what he is about to do.

He’d have asked an Alderaanian about  _ their _ customs, if he knew another besides Cara, but he couldn’t have asked her without giving himself away.

He thought initially of resorting to what he still knew of his homeworld, the planet that haunted him no matter where in the galaxy he was. Men and women on his homeworld proposed marriage with a strap of leather to be used in ceremony to tie the hands of the betrothed together as an officiant presided.

On other worlds, he knew, people proposed marriage with nothing but their words.

But Din liked the symbolism of a material object. A tangible promise one could hold in the palm of their hand. Much like his armor, he came around to thinking, they signified honor.

And that’s where the idea began.

The result was crude, imperfect, and uneven as he turned the band round and round for inspection. He had no armory or armorer to work with, just a fire pit, a spike around which to shape, and a mallet. 

He did okay for what he had to work with.

The band is by no means unsightly: a simple ring of polished metal is rather difficult to do wrong, though it still contains imperfections. Neither side is perfectly even, it’s thinner in some places than others, but it is solid. Unbreakable.

And the chip in his helmet is worth it. He barely wears the thing these days anyhow.

“Cara,” he calls from the cockpit of the  _ Crest Legacy _ . “Got a minute?”

They’re on vacation.

Or Cara is, technically—Din’s always on the clock.

It took him ages to convince her that Nevarro wouldn’t fall if she took to the stars with him for a jaunt. He wanted to show her the new ship, the replacement that would never be as comfortable to him as the  _ Razor Crest _ but would nonetheless do the job. In the end he’d pulled off the helmet and shown her a smile, and she agreed.

“You aren’t abandoning your post,” he assured her, “you’re helping me with a job.”

“What job?”

“A very important one.”

A little white lie by omission, in this case, was worth the risk.

There was indeed a job, but it wasn’t any job that came with a puck or a promise of payment upon completion. This was a job that meant more to Din than any he’d ever undertaken.

“Bridge,” she shouts back. “Almost done with the reconfiguration.”

Technology responsive to the biological makeup of one single person; safety systems for blasters without the need of a safety switch. She’s been tinkering with them to respond to  _ her _ biological readout ever since she confiscated them from spice runners.

Din thumbs a button, flips a switch, giving control of the  _ Crest Legacy _ over to itself. He pulls the ring from a pocket on his belt and looks at it. Then he takes the helmet off.

“You still not telling me where we’re going?” Cara asks without looking up from her work. He can hear the smile in her voice.

“We’re stalling,” he offers simply, closing his fist around the ring. “You figure the guns out yet?”

“I’m stalling,” she says. When she looks up to find him helmetless appreciation floods her face.

Touché.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Din says.”

“Anything,” Cara tells him.

He remembers asking her a question a while ago, what feels like forever now, at dusk on Nevarro while he helped her comb the streets for a runaway. The question that started this whole thing. 

An embarrassing, poorly executed, wonderful question.

_ “Are you—uh.” Din cleared his throat. “Am I wrong to assume that you aren’t seeing anyone? Presently, I mean—” _

_ “Wow. Is that what you think of me?” Her words bit him, but she didn’t look upset. A ghost of a smile could be seen tucked away behind the sight of her rifle. “That I  _ must  _ not have anyone like that in my life?” _

_ “No,” Din hurried out, grateful to be wearing his helmet as heat blossomed in his cheeks. “I only meant—” _

_Cara stopped him with a look. A ‘this is too easy’_ _look._

_ “Relax,” she told him, smiling curiously. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.” _

And he remembers asking her another question, the second important question. This one he fared better with, having rehearsed in his mind time and time again until he was sure no words would trip him up this time.

_ “Can we call this what it is?” _

_ Sunlight filtered in through the thin window above the bed, illuminating the two pairs of boots lined up neatly against the stone wall. Din’s boots dwarfed Cara’s, but they looked at home side by side. _

_ “And what would you call it?”  _

_ They lay facing each other beneath a thin twill sheet. Their shoulders bare, their hair mussed by a gentle wake-up call. In that moment Din felt peace, and held a hope that it was his future he was gazing upon. _

_ Cara was still but for the hand laid on Din’s jaw, and the fingertips curled beneath his chin to stroke the coarse hair on his face. _

_ “Commitment,” he said. _

_ “To each other,” she said for clarification. _

_ “Would you like that?” _

Remembering the conversation they had about his returning to work is less pleasant. They hardly fought, for on so many things their minds walked the same path, but there had been a struggle, albeit small. Din figures that struggle had something to do with heartstrings.

_ “You’re leaving,” Cara said. _

_ “I was going to ask if you’d be okay with that.” _

_ She crossed her arms, planting her feet with authority. “I’ve never had a problem with it before.” _

_ Din forced his gaze to the floor. She wasn’t wrong, but, “It’s different now,” he muttered. “There’s…commitment.” _

_ “Are you  _ committing  _ to come back?” _

_ “Yes,” he said quickly, stepping to her. His hands rose to her arms, squeezing, and he mustered a smile. “I will come back to you. You have my word.” _

_ Cara sighed, dropping her arms to loop them around his middle. “I don’t like watching you leave,” she admitted, and he could hear the effort it took her to admit as much. She pressed her forehead against his chest plate; he cradled the back of her head in his hand, the other arm clasped around her shoulders. _

_ “Commitment is making you soft,” he whispered, affection seeping into his voice. _

_ “Shut up.” _

_ “I’ll find you as soon as I return.” _

_ “Get outta here before I change my mind and chain you down.” _

And now?

“Cara Dune.” Din sinks to a knee beside her small worktable. The words  _ Marshal of Nevarro _ on the tip of his tongue change at the last moment. “Daughter of Alderaan,” he says. His heart thunders in his chest. His cheeks flood with color. He’s survived shootouts, sky battles, sieges, and not once have his veins flooded with adrenaline as they do now.

“What are you doing?” Cara’s brows shoot up. Her hands fall still on the tabled blaster. Her mouth twitches, taking its time to adopt a small smile.

Din lifts his hand and opens it, an offering. Light from an overhead lamp catches the ring in his palm. “Asking for an extension on our commitment,” he says simply.

Cara takes the ring from his hand and gives him a questioning look. “Beskar?”

“A piece of me,” he explains. “You already have the rest.”

“I won’t wear a dress,” Cara says, sliding the ring home on her finger.

“Is that a yes?”

“If you can handle it,” she says, pulling him to her by his collar, his sides nestling between her legs as his knees kept to the floor.

It would be my greatest honor, he thinks to himself in the moment before he sinks into her, their lips meeting somewhere in the middle. 

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr @ djarinscreed.tumblr.com


End file.
